White
by Laury the Latrator
Summary: "Patrick? Do you know who I am?" "Special Agent Teresa Lisbon of the CBI." A post-series one-shot in which Jane struggles with the aftermath of taking down Red John and Lisbon is his rock. Jisbon, in a sense.


"Jane?" When he first hears her voice he instinctively shifts away. Some miniscule part of him refuses to look at her, and the rest is too ashamed to have her see what he's become. He can hear her sigh gently, a delicate puff of air he imagines he can feel all the way across the white-washed room. "Jane, you know we don't have much time, please don't waste it." The screech of the four metal chair legs being pulled out jars violently against him. She must be sitting now, waiting for him to approach the other side of the table. Well, she'll have to wait a while, he thinks, because he's not going to indulge her today.

The silence is oppressive. He knows she must be impatient (that's just who she is) but she appears to have resigned herself to let him come to her. Foolish.

Their 15 minutes are up and he hasn't moved an inch or uttered a word. She sighs again, moving slowly and reluctantly from her seat.

"Jane," She pauses, "Patrick? Do you know who I am?" He can't help responding now, and even though he whispers it into the corner he's sure she hears every word.

"Special Agent Teresa Lisbon of the CBI."

* * *

She looks different without her gun and badge. Some dim part of him remembers they aren't allowed in here. He sits across from her, his gaze never settling on one spot but always trained on her. There's barely any color between them, him in his offensively monotone regulation apparel and her in an all black pantsuit buttoned all the way up so he can't even tell what shirt she has on underneath. In fact, the only colors he can make out in this entire room are the forest hues of her eyes.

"You know, the team really wants to visit you." His head shakes 'no'. Hers tilts in sympathy (never pity, though the distinction grows hazier every day). "They miss you. Van Pelt cried the other day, just because Rigsby knocked over a tea cup. It wasn't your blue one, don't worry." He doesn't worry any more, doesn't feel anything really, but he won't tell her that. She glances down at her hands. "They're not going to think any less of you. We all know what happened, we understand—" He stands suddenly, the chair careening backwards to the floor, and skitters away to the wall.

He hates that phrase. It's used so much it's lost all meaning. No one knows what it's truly like to understand anymore. Her footsteps approach so cautiously, as if he's a dangerous animal. It's appropriate. He can feel the warmth of her hand hovering uncertainly over his shoulder blades.

"Please Patrick, let us help you." His head shakes again, a visceral response more than a conscious act. "Please!" She repeats, her hand falling with a thump against her hip. It's disconcerting hearing the mighty Lisbon beg, and some part of him hates that he's reduced her to such. He wants her to be strong, because she has always been a rock and he's always been broken. Without turning around, he reaches his arm back. He fumbles for her hand and is immensely grateful when she meets his touch willingly.

It's the first human contact he's had in weeks. It gives him shivers.

They stand there in silence for the remainder of their half hour. They'd allowed her extra visiting time seeing as she was the only one to get him to speak. Her legs must be cramping from holding the position for so long, but she doesn't try to break the moment. When the guard opens the door to respectfully demand she leave, Lisbon slides her fingers through his palm, maintaining the connection for as long a possible. He shivers again.

* * *

"Jane! Jane, what is this? Jane, please, tell me what this means!"

He'd cut himself. He was too cunning for these guards and doctors and had managed to improvise a sharp enough implement to slice open his arm. Not fatally, mind you. It would be far too easy to die now. No, he'd done it to draw blood.

"I need to hear it from you. Did I do something to upset you recently? Say something!"

He'd painted a smiley face about eye level from his cot. Underneath it there was a little stick figure with long wavy hair lying sideways. Once she'd dried he'd dotted her with little bloody thumbprints.

"Is this some sort of punishment? Is this how you wish it had gone down?"

The real life Lisbon is railing at him, but he lies still on the hard metal 'bed'. It's the first time she's seen his accommodations (as white and bleak as the visitor's center but with the bare essentials of solitary confinement). She's only allowed in here today because the doctors had correctly identified her from his minimalist rendering. They were all alarmed by what they assumed to be a death wish on poor Teresa's life.

"For God's sakes Jane, I thought you might be angry, but this?"

They're wrong, of course. He could never want her dead. Quite the opposite.

No, he thinks as she collapses against the wall, burying her face in her hands, he doesn't want her dead. He'd drawn what had become his worst nightmare, the one that had begun to play more frequently in his mind than the memories of _them_, of loving _them_, of finding _them_. It'd started taking up so much space that he decided it would be simpler to exorcise the image this way rather than have to see it behind his eyelids in vivid detail.

Even as he hears her whimper and moan in despair, he thinks it'll be worth it if he can get through the night without looking into her lifeless staring eyes.

* * *

Since his masterpiece went on display, he's been forced to wear handcuffs when they talk. He doesn't protest; it's interesting. He feels almost like a perp she's triumphantly collared. It brings back memories of when he was on the other side of the table. He likes it.

She dominates their time by talking. It can be about anything. Usually she starts off with telling him about the weather, something he's been deprived of for a very long time. Then there's idle chitchat about the team, things like Cho's latest commendation, Grace's inevitable breakup with her boyfriend, and Rigsby's subsequent elation. She'll talk about Hightower, whom she's built a solid connection with at last. Occasionally she brings up cases and gets lost in puzzling them out in front of him. He thinks he likes those times; he gets to watch her mind at work again and it feels right.

Once she mentions a man's name he doesn't recognize. It's a simple mistake. "Marcus thinks I'm letting it get to me but—" Her pausing in the middle of the sentence leaves no doubt about the nature of their relationship. She becomes flustered after her slip up, just a little but enough that he notices. She changes the subject with a rosy blush spreading over her cheeks. The incident sparks something almost like a feeling, and he's conflicted by rivaling urges to nurture this emotion like a baby bird and squash it like an insignificant and bothersome cockroach.

* * *

Today looks to be a bad day. She's drained, that's clear in her posture and movements, and there's that line in her forehead that speaks of her tension headache. She slumps into the chair and immediately her head hits the table with a dull 'thunk' which piques his interest. That's a rare thing, and for a moment he doesn't feel put off by it. He genuinely cares.

"Lisbon?" He croaks. Startled, her head shoots up, eyes a little wild.

"Oh." She whispers, and the exhaustion is even more evident in her voice. She sounds surprised, naturally, seeing as how he hadn't said a word since her first visit. "Hi." She adds belatedly. It might've made him smile. Instead he simply stares, waiting for some explanation. It will come eventually so he waits.

"He only asks for me."

Eureka.

"He can't have you so... he's tormenting me now. He knows his time's limited and he has leverage i-in the victims that... that we haven't found yet, so he calls for me! I have to go, I have to, he won't talk to anyone else! And I can't just ignore him when there are families out there still waiting for daughters and sisters and mothers to come home!" The hysteria that she'd been holding in for weeks is pouring out and all Jane can do is watch.

Red John. She's visiting Red John. Red John's still hurting her and, he discovers, hurting him. As each sentence escapes her he gains a little more understanding. He knows what the bastard is doing, how he's playing with her.

"For every nugget of information he gives up I have to suffer through hours of... sick ramblings and disjointed horror stories of his past 'conquests'. That's what he calls them, you know, conquests. And — God! — the things he says! I try not to let it show, my disgust, but it doesn't matter, he just keeps going." She cups her head in both hands. She can't look at him when she speaks next. "Over and over it's _them_. He won't stop. I think he can tell how much worse it is for me. He calls them his greatest masterpiece."

"Well," She amends with a laugh, but it isn't Teresa's laugh, it's harsh and cold and afraid. "They were. See, he had big plans. Says it would've overshadowed the shock value of even _their_ demise. Every day I hear him bitch about the lost opportunity. He'll get this wistful look on his face and he'll go on and on fantasizing out loud about how great it would be to cut my throat, slice me open, watch my blood—"

"Stop." His voice is as hoarse as ever but somehow it's enough. Lisbon looks up, silently taking note of his solitary tear track. She has none to match.

"He says it's because you love me." She tells him wearily.

"Smart man." He whispers through cracked lips. She might not hear it. It might be better if she doesn't.

"After all this time he still craves causing you pain. It almost makes me regret..."_ Stopping you._ _Letting him live. Being who I am_. She searches his eyes. "If I hadn't... would you be alright? Would you still be you?" He doesn't know, doesn't have an answer, so he takes her hand instead. Understanding softens the lines of her face.

It's the first conversation they've had on Red John since his breakdown.

* * *

He starts to talk again.

He starts to smile again.

He starts to live again.

* * *

Two months later he's discharged from the Sacramento Mental Health facility. Lisbon is waiting for him in the parking lot with a coffee and tea in styrofoam cups.

"'Bout time." She remarks in exasperation that's clearly just a mask for her true happiness.

"Funny, that's exactly what I said back there." He counters, pointing carelessly over his shoulder at the hospital. Predictably, she takes a swing at his chest with her elbow which he narrowly dodges while skillfully grabbing his tea. He takes a sip, grimacing playfully at the inadequate milk/tea ratio. She rolls her eyes, opening the car door and preparing to leave the world of whitewash behind.

The fact that she brought him some tea, the fact that she's still here at all, makes it that much sweeter.

* * *

**So, this is a one-shot that took me a while. The concept was clear to me in that I wanted it to be more suspenseful than I usually do. There isn't a super fluffy ending but it's definitely more uplifting than the rest of the story. Please let me know what you think, if the tone works and everything :)**


End file.
